What Is Yet To Come

January 4, 2020

Fire in my blood rushes to my finger tips.

My pen is set ablaze.

Although the end is just a haze

I find comfort in what is yet to come.

The world is unsure and everything is temporary

I know this now.

Yet this state of unpredictability forces adrenaline in my veins

And my spirit is risen again.

Something wrong with this poem?

Replies are closed for this poem.

See what makes your poem unique — its voice, energy, themes, and the literary traditions it draws from.

Comments (0)

No comments yet. Be the first to share your thoughts.